


The Pountney Club (2002)

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5032510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a six year gap, Sherlock and Lestrade's paths cross again...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The call came into the New Scotland Yard via the 999 service: a crime in progress. The control dispatcher said it had been phoned in by a victim of grievous bodily harm, who was being held against his will and feared for his life.

DI Lestrade sighed.  _Welcome to another Friday night in London_. It could be a hoax call; too many false alarms turned out to be a swarm of drunken youths celebrating the end of their week with too much booze, when horsing around turned into a "let's wind the police up a bit". At least there was no football match on; that usually made life worse.

"Play me the call."

The recording started:

"What service please?"

It was a quiet baritone voice that replied. Not panicky, rather clear. "Police- this is an emergency. There is a crime in progress at the Penthouse Flat, Warner Yard, Clerkenwell. Linked to the Islington murder four weeks ago; GBH already occurred, homicidal intent unambiguous. DI Lestrade, Hurry." Then the silence of a disconnected line.

The wording took Lestrade by surprise. "Have we got anyone undercover out there? Whoever this is knows the code." The reference to Islington was enough to attract attention as the murder had not been widely reported, but it was the GBH ‘with homicidal intent’ wording that confirmed it as something highly relevant to the Homicide and Serious Crime division- and in the exact wording used in police reports. If that wasn't enough, calling for Lestrade by name was another give-away clue, if they needed one. But he didn't recognise the voice. "Could you trace the call?"

"Too short. All we know is that it was made from a mobile."

oOo

The building was one of those seriously posh blocks that went up in the 1990s, all along the edges of the Square Mile. Every one of the flats was probably worth over a million pounds.  _Probably all owned by rich foreigners or City wide-boys._  Lestrade's London had changed over the past ten years. Bankers' bonus money and wealthy immigrants made London property prices soar. The people who lived in this block were raking it in, clearly.

"Who's in the penthouse flat?" The DI barked the question at the security guard in the marble-clad lobby, and then said "don't you  _dare_  pick up that phone. Just answer the question."

"No one. That is, it's a property company that leases it out occasionally to visiting bankers for a couple of days at a time."

"And who's up there now?"

"Some bankers having a party, celebrating some deal or other. I can't keep track of them, and the company doesn't want me to know who is using it; lots of hush-hush deals. You know these City types. As long as they show me their keys, I let them in."

Lestrade left a constable at the front desk, to watch both the front door and the guard, ensuring that he didn't make a call to tip off the occupants.

Three minutes later, the DI and three constables stood outside the door of the penthouse flat. "Open up, Police!" Lestrade had a loud voice, and knew that whoever was inside would have heard it.

He turned to the constables. "Give 'em a count of five, then use the ram."

A voice came from inside the apartment. "Wait, I'm coming."

 _Sounds foreign; calm, not panicky._ There was a faint sound of people moving inside, then footsteps approaching the door. It opened on a safety chain and a face peered around the door. Lestrade flashed his warrant card. "I said, open up. We're police investigating a crime in progress."

The chain came off and the door opened to reveal a man in his fifties, wearing a business suit but no tie. "There must be some mistake, Officer. There is no crime going on in here- just a group of people enjoying a private dinner." His English was excellent, but clearly not his native tongue.  _Italian?_  Lestrade saw the cut of the expensive suit, the soft leather shoes, the Rolex oyster watch and the fact that the man had a fashionable tan, despite it being mid-November.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, Metropolitan Police. We were called about a crime in progress at this address, no mistake, Mister…?

"Georgio Vanucci, Detective Inspector; I'm Chief Executive of Arnaulti Bank. That's in Milan, in case you aren't familiar with Italian banks."

 _In other words, be very careful little policeman if you are going to accuse someone as exalted as me of any sort of crime._  There was a moment of awkward silence before Lestrade smiled. "I'm sorry to intrude like this, but I must insist on searching the premises."

He left one constable on the door to make sure no one left. When he and the other two constables left the penthouse's foyer and entered the open plan living room, Greg saw the remains of the party. A dining room table lit by candles with five place settings showed the debris of a top class meal. One plate of food looked untouched; Lestrade's glance took in the Michelin star presentation. A half dozen empty wine bottles on a side table screamed expensive vintages and quality chateaux. The kitchen area was empty excepting a few delivery boxes; the meal had been catered.

There were two men sitting either side of a fireplace, where gas flames were casting a soft glow onto the glass and chrome coffee table with four glasses of what smelled like brandy. They were jacketless, without ties, but still wearing business trousers. Both looked curiously at the DI, if a little alarmed at the uniformed constables.

Vanucci gestured to the one on the left. "May I introduce Georges Versault, of Limoux Bank, and that is Balázs Szamuely; he's Managing Director of the Capital Markets division of Magyarsa Bank in Budapest. Gentlemen, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade, from the Police, who is under the mistaken belief that there is a crime going on here."

The men looked puzzled and also a little annoyed. "Is this how the English treat foreign visitors, Detective? Gate-crashing a private party seems rather extreme- something I might expect in Russia or the third world, where the police are always on the hunt for a bribe." This was said by the bigger of the two seated men, the Eastern European. His accent was thicker, and he looked a little flushed in the face.

That annoyed Lestrade. "Who else is in the flat?"

Vanucci gestured toward a door off to the side. "We sent the catering staff home hours ago. My colleague, Simon Williams, the CEO of an American hedge fund is in that bedroom, using what you British call 'the loo'. He'll be out in a moment. "

"Then you won't mind if we have a look around, will you?"

"Would it make any difference if I did mind?" the Italian asked mildly.

"Yes, it would mean that I would have to leave a constable here to make sure that none of you left the flat or made any phone calls while I go get a warrant, which I can assure you I will get on the basis of the phone call received."

The tanned banker pursed his lips for a moment, and then shrugged. "By all means, take a look, if by doing so you will leave us alone more quickly."

Lestrade nodded to the two constables, one of who went down the corridor towards the other bedrooms, while the other headed for the room where the American was supposed to be. Lestrade looked out the plate glass windows, and asked Vanucci casually, "what's out there?"

The Italian looked out. "London?" The Hungarian smirked.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "I meant in terms of the apartment."

"I couldn't honestly tell you, Detective Inspector. We've been in the flat for about four hours enjoying our dinner. It's too cold to venture out on the patio decking. Your English climate, I fear, is not very agreeable in November."

The constable re-appeared with an American in tow. From his button down shirt to his tasselled loafers, he looked the part. "Hello, I'm Simon Williams. What seems to be the problem, officer?" The accent was New York, like something out of a Hollywood film.

The PC behind the banker gestured with his head back at the bedroom. Lestrade replied, "Well, excuse me, gentlemen, but I need to take a look at that room."

Even a quick glance aroused his suspicions. Something had taken place in here. The sheets on the bed were in a tangle, and there was a scent of cigarette smoke and sweat. The double patio doors from the bedroom were closed, but it felt cold in the room. There was no duvet or blankets on the bed, which made it look odd to the detective. The bathroom gave up no clues; the toilet had been flushed recently and the cistern was re-filling. The PC crouched down beside the toilet bowl and ran his finger over some powder on the floor. "Talc?" He lifted a finger and sniffed, then tasted delicately. "Nope, it's coke. Probably flushed the lot down the loo to get rid of the evidence."

When Greg returned to the living room, the four men were now standing, uneasy. "Gentlemen, we've found evidence that drugs have been in this flat." He looked down at the coffee table and saw the faintest trace of a line of powder. "And that suggests you've been enjoying some of them, too." He walked up to the bankers and took a good look at their faces. The Hungarian showed clear signs of being high- his pupils were dilated, despite the dim light in the room, and his face was flushed. American and the Frenchman seemed to be under the influence of something but less affected- it might be the alcohol. Only the Italian seemed cool as a cucumber.

"Detective Inspector, I am sure that this is some sort of mistake. We've been having a private party. If there are traces of drugs in the flat, they must have been here before we arrived. I assure you that apart from a lot of some rather nice wine, we have not consumed anything illegal."

The Hungarian bristled. "Surely, the police had better things to do than to harass four senior bankers. Shouldn't you be pursuing terrorists or organised crime?" There was something just that little bit snide in his tone that riled Lestrade.

Something wasn't right, but he was having trouble putting his finger on it. Something was nagging at the back of his mind. Greg took a good look at the Hungarian. The other three men looked like what he would expect, after a long day.  _Shirt- that's it; looks too clean, must be new on._  The wrinkles in the other men's shirts were not on the Hungarian's shirt, which looked like it had come straight from the cleaners.

"Mister Szamuely, can you tell me why you changed your shirt?"

He just looked at Greg as if he was an utter moron. "What the hell business is it of yours? I changed for dinner; after a hard day making lots of money, I took a shower and changed."

"Then you won't mind if we see the shirt you were wearing?"

"I sent it to the laundry."

It was just that tiny bit too glib. Lestrade's radar suddenly flared. "Constable Hawkins, take a look in that bedroom and find me that shirt."

Now the Italian decided to get involved. "Detective, I do think this has gone far enough. We have answered your questions. You have seen the apartment; there is no one here but us, and there is no crime being committed. I am going to have to ask you to leave now. If you want to ask further questions, you will need to talk to our lawyers."

The DI did not reply, but stared intently at the Hungarian. "May I see your hands, please?"

The Italian banker now stepped between Lestrade and the Hungarian. "Really, Detective, I must protest. You are harassing us. You have no cause to examine us like this."

At that point, the constable returned with a crumpled pink shirt. Hawkins shook it out in front of the men, so that everyone could see the blood droplets splattered across the front.

"Cut yourself shaving then, Mr Szamuely?" Lestrade asked. "Or were those bruised and bloodied knuckles of yours the result of hitting someone?"

The second constable returned from the far bedrooms. "Nothing in them, Guv- no sign of anything suspicious."

"Check outside on the deck, Hawkins. Take a  _good_  look around."

There was something nagging at the back of Lestrade's mind. Something he had seen that didn't add up.  _Five places set at the table, one untouched._ "Mister Vanucci, just who was the other place at the table for?"

The Italian glanced back at the table. "Oh, a colleague who didn't show up. Phoned in to say he couldn't make it. Family issues or something. We'd been waiting long enough, so we started without him."

The constable came running back in. "Sir, I've found something- come quick."

Lestrade followed the man out onto the deck, and then the PC shone his torch over the side of the metal railing. Some ten feet below, on the roof of the apartment below the penthouse, there was a duvet- with what appeared to be something wrapped up in it. Even from the balcony, Lestrade could see a dark stain, which his imagination filled in as blood. "Get the ambulance service here  _now_ , and arrest these men; and figure out how to get down there onto that roof."

After that, things exploded into action. Back-up was called, the bankers were read their rights and cuffed, and the security guard at the front desk hauled upstairs to tell them how to get down onto the roof. PC Jones went down a small ladder around the back of the patio surrounding the penthouse, and worked his way onto the roof. In the torchlight, he pulled the duvet away to reveal a naked man.

"Is he alive?" Lestrade shouted, leaning over the balcony to get a better look.

"I've got a pulse."

"Wrap him back up, Constable, and stay with him until the medics get here."


	2. Chapter 2

"You have questions."

Lestrade looked at the bruised face, the eye that was almost swollen shut, and wondered where the calm words came from. Most of the victims he'd rescued from the kind of beating that the young man had sustained would be crying in pain, disoriented, confused and certainly not up for any serious questioning. He'd learned over the years that most of what was said in the aftermath of such an assault would be unusable.

"Yeah, let's start with an odd one. I know you, don't I? You seem familiar."

There was a soft snort. "You have a poor memory if six years is enough to make you forget a face."

"Hmm. Well, the face I'm looking at now isn't exactly a pretty sight, you'll have to admit. You don't need a mirror; the pain should tell you what you look like. So unless you were battered half to death last time we met, I need some more clues."

"Your first crime scene as DS officer in charge, a pub with a dead Ukrainian that everyone thought was a murdered Russian." 

The penny dropped. Last seen as a skinny seventeen year old, the man on the bed was now a good five inches taller. "Give me a break; you were only a kid."

No reply. 

"So, what's your name then?" The boy he brought back to the station in 1994 had been picked up by an older brother, a remarkably calm twenty three year old, immaculately dressed. Lestrade remembered that.

"You  _really_  can't remember the name?"

"Give me a break." The detective inspector ran his hand over his tired eyes. "I've arrested hundreds of people since then, interviewed ten times as many people. If I dig out my notebook from that long ago, I'll find you, never fear."

A smile quirked the left side of the young man's bloodied lip. "Lars Sigerson?"

 _Oh, that was the fake ID_. "Now I remember! Holmes, isn't it?"

"Well, you've had a daily reminder staring you in the face since 1986. The Home Office Large Major Enquiry Service*. Can you remember the first name?"

"Your brother's was easier- Mycroft. That stuck; don't know why, but it did."

The young man's smile vanished. "That's because he's such a smug git. He always leaves an impression."

"Sher…no, not Sherman, something else- yes, got it now- Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, that was amusing. Got anything of any real significance to ask, or are you just passing the time of day?" His bruised and swollen eyes closed.

Lestrade found himself smiling. "Well, the years hasn't improved your patience any, that's clear. I distinctly remember you being a sarky bastard back then, too."

The young man on the bed did not reply. 

For a moment, Greg wondered if it was sensible to continue to talk; maybe he'd need some time to recover from his injuries. One last try- "So, want to tell me what you were doing in a penthouse getting the shit beaten out of you?"

"Investigating a crime- the Islington murder to be precise. Something your lot has singularly failed to make any progress on over the past four weeks."

Lestrade blinked _. Since when does a civilian investigate a crime?_   "So, tell me why would someone like you do such a thing?"

"I knew Miles Stedman- that's the Islington victim, in case your memory is as bad with his name as it was with mine. It bothered me that you idiots weren't connecting any of the dots as to how and why he was murdered."

"So, you're suggesting that the guys that beat you up had something to do with it?"

"Nope."

Lestrade looked a bit nonplussed. "Then you made a mistake and they got bolshie about it?"

"No."

The DI now looked confused. "Are you making no sense at all because you're suffering from concussion? Should I come back tomorrow when you are more coherent?"

The tall brunet sighed. "Bring me a laptop and I will show you why you are an idiot; you're asking the wrong questions, Detective Inspector."

"I'm not sure I have time for playing twenty questions, Mr Holmes. I have four suspects in the station, and I need to make sure that we've collected the forensic evidence to convict them of GBH and drug abuse. Do I really need this aggro tonight?"

"Oh, go ahead, then. Confirm my worst expectations of you, pass up the opportunity to solve the Islington murder and the chance to wrap up at least a dozen other cold cases that have been sitting collecting dust in New Scotland Yard and the City of London's police HQ for the past four years. Or, you could bring me a laptop and let me show you just how wrong you are."

Greg looked at the beaten body lying on the bed. Years ago, the kid had proved to be right about the Ukrainian's death, and that alone made him curious to know more. On the other hand, he had enough to make a case, which is what he was paid to do. Why should he waste more time here tonight? Yet, the young man lying in the bed was the victim, and his statement would need to be taken. He could send a constable to do just that, or come back later himself. Lestrade decided.

"OK, just hold that thought. I'll be back later tonight, with a laptop and I will take your formal statement then, once I've done what I need to do back at the station."

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *author's note- believe it or not, this is true. The Home Office Large Major Enquiry Service (affectionately known as HOLMES2) is in use today by the Metropolitan Police force. It's a huge database of crimes and suspects and used every day to solve cases.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade sighed as he came back out of the University College Hospital on Euston Street. It was almost 2am and he was shattered. A long day had turned into a longer night and he was feeling that horrible combination of tired beyond belief yet wired from too much caffeine. The Emergency Department had discharged the patient he had come to see.  _Damn, damn, damn._  Tonight was going from bad to worse in a hurry.

He'd just spent a frustrating three and a half hours with the four suspects from Warner Yard's penthouse. All four had lawyered- and not just your run of the mill solicitors- these were the heavy brigade of the legal world, and they had made his head hurt. They were all claiming the same thing- that the young man was a cocaine dealer, who arrived high and carrying drugs he tried to sell them. It was a misunderstanding; no one had asked such a person to come to the flat, but when they tried to get him to leave, he threatened them with blackmail, saying he'd go to the police. When Balázs objected strenuously, the young man got physical with the wrong guy. When he realised that the Hungarian was much stronger than he was, he'd run out onto the balcony and disappeared. They had assumed he'd just got away- had no idea he'd fallen over the balcony. They claimed that they said nothing, because they'd done nothing wrong.

The SOC forensics team would have a go at the penthouse flat tomorrow morning. It was sealed off with police tape in the meantime, but Lestrade hoped that they'd be able to come up with something useful, because so far, there was nothing to say that their story wasn't the truth, apart from the beaten body of a young man lying in a hospital bed.

The lawyers for all but the Hungarian managed to finesse their release on bail- and Greg worried that he would have insufficient evidence to interest the Crown Prosecution Service in taking their cases forward. The Hungarian was in more trouble- the forensic evidence linked the bloody knuckles and his shirt with assault; the question was whether it was done through some form of self defence against a drug dealer, or a brutal beating of an innocent person. The other three bankers were confident that it was a misunderstanding that could be cleared up; they had not been in the room where the fight had taken place between the young man and the Hungarian, so could not comment on who had started it in the first place, or how it had ended. Those three had volunteered a drug test, which came up clear; only two of them were showing an alcohol level that would stop them from driving legally, but that was no crime when sitting in a penthouse. Instead, they argued that it was the police's job to prosecute the young man, and that they would provide evidence in a statement, should Lestrade require it.

Lestrade was tired, and annoyed. He'd had no choice but to release the three men and his case against the last banker was looking more tenuous by the minute, now that his chief witness on whom the case would now hang had just disappeared.

The junior doctor explained, "He discharged himself, Detective Inspector, about an hour after you left. We can only lead a horse to water; can't force them to drink, you know. If you thought he was a suspect, then you should have left a constable to keep an eye on him, or at least instructions to us not to release him."

She was right, and it annoyed the DI. "I don't suppose you took a drugs test?"

She frowned. "Why would we? He didn't appear to be under the influence, and we were more worried about X-rays to check for broken bones. There weren't any, by the way. Just a lot of contusions and a slight concussion."

Lestrade cursed. Without proof that the young man wasn't high, it would be his word against the bankers. He tried another tack with the doctor. "Did anyone collect him? Surely you wouldn't release a patient with concussion to be on his own?"

"He said he had someone at his flat able to keep an eye on him, so we had no choice."

There was an address- 46d, Montague Street, which was within walking distance. Fifteen minutes if you were healthy- God knows how long it would take if you were suffering from such a collection of bruises and a concussion.  _Please let this be a legitimate address. God,_   _I hope he's there, or I am going to be in deep trouble._

The area around the University's medical centre was obviously gentrified, colonised by the young professionals who liked the 'mid-town' feel to the area, but by the time he'd walked south to Montague Street, the smart refurbished terraced houses had given way to the hordes of down-at-the-heel bed and breakfast hotels that clustered around the British Museum. 46 Montague Street was shabbier than most, showing definite need of a coat of paint and a bit of TLC. Given the number of buzzers, obviously bedsits, rather than proper flats. He pressed the one for flat d.  _No name on the doorbell._  It was the sort of thing a policeman noticed.

At least someone was awake at this ungodly hour, as a few moments after he punched the buzzer, the electronic lock released. He pushed the front door open onto a dusty black and white tiled hallway. Two flights up the threadbare carpeted stairs, the DI found 46d, and knocked on the door. He had just lifted his hand to knock a second time when the door opened, and Greg saw how much the bruising had come out on Sherlock's face in the intervening hours.

"You look terrible."

The tall brunet tried to raise an eyebrow at that comment, but it obviously hurt, so he just winced. He silently gestured the DI into the room. Glancing around, Lestrade took it in almost instantly. A bare room- one sofa that probably had a pull-out bed, a rickety table and two chairs in the bay front window, a kitchen area with sink and one cabinet above and one below, a toaster, kettle, and a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. There was a gas fire with a cheap fake pine mantel over it. Everywhere there was a pervasive scent of cigarette smoke, and Greg saw a lit one sitting smouldering in an ashtray on the table. The one other door in the room presumably went to a bathroom. In short, the basic bedsit refuge of the not quite down and out, but just above the level of homeless. Rent by the week, not the month; no questions asked. Lestrade had seen hundreds like it before, when investigating crimes. Usually the rooms held suspects, not victims, and that made the DI wary. Were the bankers right?

"You told the Emergency Department that you had someone at your flat to keep an eye on your concussion. Were you lying, or is there someone in the loo?"

Sherlock smirked. "I didn't say who it was, did I? He gestured to the mantle. "DI Lestrade meet Skull. Skull meet the police." Greg looked at the skull and realised it was real.

"Technically, that doesn't have an eye to keep on anything, just a socket." Greg looked at the young man and saw the evidence of the night's toll- he was obviously in pain, pale, a bit sweaty, and his clothes looked wrinkled and dirty. He didn't look high, but then it was almost seven hours after the dinner had started, so any drugs should have worn off by now.

Sherlock withstood the scrutiny and returned the look. "Actually, you don't look great yourself, Detective Inspector. You're knackered and frustrated, haven't eaten in hours and your wife is going to be really pissed off at you when you turn up at the crack of dawn, cold, tired and hungry. Not a great catch, marrying a policeman, is it?"

Greg stared at the young man.

Sherlock continued, "…and you are just dying for a smoke, despite trying to deal with her nagging at you to stop. Would you like one? If she's going to shout at you, then you might as well earn it by doing something you really want to do."

"How do you know about my wife?" he asked mildly as Sherlock handed him one out of the box on the table and tossed him the lighter.

"You weren't married seven years ago, but your ring looks well worn, so I estimate you've been married for about four or five years, going by the amount of soap film build up on the gold. Your shirt was ironed before you put it on this morning- tell-tale creases, even if you look now like you slept in it. So, she's putting up with you, even though the hours are not really social and she is getting impatient for children to keep her mind off how many nights you are on duty."

 _How the hell does he know that?_ It was the same sort of string of observations that he remembered being surprised about at the bar when he first saw Sherlock seven years ago. Now, however, instead of assessing a dead body, that forensic commentary was personal and directed at the Detective. Greg bristled. "That's enough about me, Mr Holmes. I am here to find out about you and your connection to the events of this evening. I'll take a statement, and then you and I are going to discuss the Islington murder."

"Forget the statement about Clerkenwell for the moment- that's just small beer, what you really need to know is the big picture."

The DI turned to the briefcase he'd brought with him and started to reach in for his laptop.

"Oh, no need for that, since we last spoke, I've managed to liberate a  _much_  more interesting laptop from one of the suspects." Sherlock pointed to the open computer on the table in the window.

Greg looked perplexed. How had the injured man managed to obtain it?

"Oh, do keep up, Lestrade, really! Even you will recall that I was taken into hospital wrapped in nothing but a duvet, so I went back to Clerkenwell to recover my clothes. While I was there, I helped myself to the American's latest laptop. Fascinating, really useful."

"You crossed a police line and stole evidence? That's a criminal offence!"

"Don't be absurd. I have no other clothes here- and I can't say that the charity items the hospital provided were exactly pleasant, so I recovered what I was wearing before the beating. More important, you need to know what's on this laptop if you are going to hold them for any length of time, and build a proper case." He was watching Greg's face at this point, and then looked disappointed. "Oh, I see that you've already had that conversation and they've been released. That's rather annoying, isn't it?"

The older man just closed his eyes, and rubbed the back of his neck. "You have no idea, Mister Holmes."

The younger man was typing away on the keyboard. "Do me a favour, Lestrade; my name is Sherlock. When you call me 'Mister Holmes' it makes me wonder why you're talking to my brother."

That made the detective smile; he remembered Mycroft Holmes. "OK, Sherlock it is. Now do me a favour and tell me why I shouldn't arrest you now on the basis of what those bankers told me."

"Let me guess- they've accused me of doing something illegal- probably drug dealing-and when they tried to be good citizens, I attacked them. So, it's self-defence all round, is it? Or is the Hungarian admitting to a bit more physical engagement? After all, even  _you_  could see that he had physical evidence of an altercation on him."

"That may be so, Sherlock, but it's his word against yours about who started the fight."

"And I suppose he's saying that I ran away and threw myself over the balcony?"

"Something like that."

Sherlock sighed. "Idiots," he muttered. Lestrade wondered whether he meant the bankers, or the police. The brunet's next question made him realise that it was probably the police who he had in mind. "And did you ask them why I was naked, or had that slipped your mind?"

"The Hungarian said your 'companionship' – and yes, that was the word he used – had been arranged for the evening, and that there was nothing illegal about it between consenting adults. He didn't know you were high, selling drugs and planning on threatening them with blackmail. "

"And what do you think, Detective Inspector? Have you decided I am a suspect, rather than a victim?"

"You tell me, Sherlock."

The young man lit another cigarette, took a deep drag, and then started speaking quietly. "Their solicitors are very good at this, and you won't be able to make the forensic evidence work to convict the Italian, French and American - even though they were happy to watch their friend beat the crap me up. I didn't come with drugs; they were there before I arrived. They had enjoyed a little- probably not enough to show on a tox screen by the time your lot got around to it; only the Hungarian kept it going past the brief recreational appetiser before dinner. That said, the other three were more than happy to take their turns in the bedroom after dinner. Only the Hungarian liked it rough, and started going rather over the top. He had a stash in the bathroom, and powdered his nose, as the saying goes. That's when I nicked his phone and made the call to you. Then it went from bad to worse, and I decided that I had what I needed in terms of evidence, so I tried to escape. Unfortunately, as you will have guessed, he's a LOT bigger than me, and I wasn't able to get dressed again, before Szamuely 'helped' me out the patio doors onto the deck and tossed me over the side. Lucky for me, the fall was only down to the roof of the floor below. For all he knew, it was a six floor drop to the street."

His strange grey-green eyes locked with Greg's brown eyes. "Yes, if this ever came to court, it would be his word against mine. He's a banker, and I am …living a rather less affluent life style, about which a jury would probably draw the wrong conclusions. But, fortunately, I did not go there tonight expecting to get a conviction against the four of them. I actually got what I wanted- information and a password that I needed."

Greg was listening from the sofa. He was frowning. "You would put yourself at risk because you thought these people were in some way connected to the Islington murder?" He looked confused.

Sherlock put his hand to his forhead in disbelief. "Are you  _really_  that thick, or is it just exhaustion that is clouding your thinking? I've already said these four had nothing to do with the murder. No, Detective Inspector, you have to stop being so literal."

"Then explain it in words of one syllable, or I'm going to be annoyed enough to start believing those bankers that you are the criminal, not the victim." Greg let the sarcasm show, as well as the threat.

The young man stood up and stretched gingerly. "Right- step one, stop thinking small, Lestrade. What happened tonight is the tip of the iceberg. Yes- this evening's events involved four bankers, or rather three bankers and a hedge fund manager. Doesn't matter what bit of the financial world they come from, they all share one thing in common, and it is that they are members of something called the Pountney Club. Oh, and the murderers involved in Miles Stedman's death were also members."

"Just imagine this, Detective Inspector. You are the chief executive of an international bank or global financial firm. In your own home market, you are treated like a king. Everyone knows you. From concierge to maître de, from chief inspector to drug dealer or pimp. You know where to go, what to do, where to source your drugs, sex and rock and roll when you've just clinched the deal of a lifetime. But, take that same person overseas, put him in a place like London, where so much international deal making takes place, and that same kingpin is a nobody. Doesn't know how to source his favourite fun safely, or where to party without fear of being busted.

"So, the Pountney Club was formed to meet those needs. Members include central bank chairmen from all the major financial zones, bank CEOs, MDs from insurance companies, hedge funds, corporate lawyers, you name it. All you need is two personal recommendations from existing members and one hell of a hefty bank balance. Once you're in, then whenever you arrive in London, all your needs are looked after. Cars, private flats, women, men, sex, drugs, whatever. Trouble is, when bankers party, people can get hurt, crimes can be committed. Oh, good news- the club looks after that, too."

"Miles Stedman was a student at my university who, like me, ended up not graduating. He was an addict with expensive tastes, and made contact with one of the people running the Pountney Club. He supplied the drugs and was the dinner guest at a rather raucous party run for a group of Russian bankers, only he never made it out alive. When the bankers realised he was dead, they bolted and called the club. The crime scene was cleaned up and the body dumped. Your first problem is that you can't find out who this Miles Stedman is- all you've got is the ID that you are now beginning to think is fake. And you have made no progress on the case because you can't find the scene of the original crime."

Lestrade just listened in growing fascination. "How the hell did you figure this out? What kind of evidence have you got?"

"It helps that I know Miles Stedman isn't his real name; he changed it when he left university, because his family disowned him. So, I knew who to look for, under his real name, Eduardo Riguez, when it came to tracing his movements after he left Cambridge. Went to his flat, had a nose around, found a couple of references in a diary, then a business card from the club."

Lestrade just looked at the young man's bruised face. "So, you just decided to do the same? Put yourself forward as what? A posh rent boy?" Greg remembered the original crime scene when he first met Sherlock.

"I can play the part convincingly, so the Pountney Club took me onto their books. The Clerkenwell flat was my first gig, actually. But it was enough to get me into the presence of four members- and access to that laptop. Using the American's password, I've located the club's system and hacked into it. That's what I've been doing while you've been getting the run-around from their solicitors."

"And how did you know his password?" His eyebrows rose incredulously.

Sherlock just snorted. "Passwords are like walnuts- easy to crack open if you know how and what to look for, detective. If you want proof, just let me at the laptop in your briefcase. If it's yours, I bet you a £100 I can get into it within five minutes. The Pountney Club's internal database was trickier- that took me almost 40 minutes."

Lestrade looked uncomfortable. Sherlock smirked. "Yes, I know, not terribly legal. Doesn't matter. Armed with a warrant you can now get the info legally under the Data Protection Act, and arrest the club organisers for being accessories to three murders, multiple instances of rape and assault and literally hundreds of drugs and under-aged sex offences- all neatly covered up."

"Will any of it stand up in court? I've just spent three hours with a batch of lawyers that could get a serial killer off, so how can you be sure this will work?"

"I'm not an idiot, detective. The club kept meticulous files on its clients' misdemeanours, all useful protection and maybe even blackmail material. While you were faffing about with lawyers, I have spent the time gutting that database for all the evidence you'll need." He held up a USB stick.

"I'm handing this to you on a plate, Lestrade. It should make your career."

"Why would you want to do that?"

The young man looked up at Greg. "Why not?"

"I mean it, Sherlock. What's in this for you? Why would you nearly get yourself killed to uncover this crime network? How was Miles Stedman important to you?"

A slow smiled dawned on Sherlock's face. He pushed himself back from the table and crossed his arms. "You think that I'm involved with Stedman's cocaine dealing. That's why you're hesitating."

He smirked, and then leant forward to type something into the laptop, before turning it sideways so Lestrade could see the screen that was opening. "My alibi for the night that Stedman died- I was at a chemistry lecture at Imperial College". He gestured toward the screen. "There's the Professor’s name; give him a call, if you want verification." The young man continued, "You can rest your conscience, Detective Inspector. I scarcely knew Eduardo at University, and had no contact with him after he changed his name to Miles. No, I did this because I got curious about the circumstances around his death. I solved the crime, because I could. It's what I enjoy doing. I showed you my aptitude at that crime scene where we first met. You could say it's a passion of mine."

The DI gave that some thought. His mind kept returning to that moment when he looked over the balcony at the bundle on the roof below, wrapped in the bloodied duvet. "Most people your age have normal hobbies- you know, following a football team, dancing at a club, chasing girls; why do you think that infiltrating a crime network is a suitable pastime?"

"I intend doing this as a career, a sort of consulting detective. I solved your first case after your promotion to Sergeant, and now I am about to solve another for you – or, rather, lots more, once your team is able to match up the data with your cold cases files. I would have thought that would be enough to convince you that I am worth consulting."

"The Met does not consult external people."

"Yes, you do- you regularly hire profilers."

"That's different. They're criminal psychologists."

"I'm a specialist, too. And, evidently, I am able to do things that your people are unable to do."

The older man sat down on the sofa, and rubbed his eyes. "I don't suppose you have any coffee?"

Sherlock's grey eyes just bore into him for a moment. Then without a word, he got up and went to the sink, filled the kettle and switched it on. He washed one of the dirty mugs and pulled out of the cupboard a jar of instant coffee. A few moments later, he handed the detective a mug. "I don't take milk in my coffee, so there's none in the flat."

"That's OK; I drink it black, too." Sherlock lit another cigarette and handed it over to the detective, who took it gratefully and pulled in a long drag of smoke.

Lestrade said quietly, "I don't know a thing about you. I have no idea what you've been up to for the past six years, and nothing at all about what put you in that pub at sixteen, high as a kite, and living homeless. Last time I saw you, you were being escorted out of the station by your scary brother and probably headed for a lengthy stay in an institution. Does he know where you are?"

"Leave him out of it. I make my own way now. You want a potted history? OK- after you ratted me out to my brother, I spent six months in rehab, and then went to Cambridge to read Chemistry. Bored me witless, so I didn't finish the degree, left after my second year. I worked part time in a number of forensic labs for a while, including Hitchingbrooke Park at Huntington. To be honest, the work was as excruciatingly boring as the studying had been. Chemistry helps, but too many crime scene officers don't understand crime. I do. It's what I do best. As this evening's work shows, detective."

"And the drugs? Are you clean now?"

Sherlock looked at him carefully. "At the moment. Whether I stay that way depends on how bored I get. Give me an opportunity to work with you and I won't be bored."

Greg wondered whether he was so tired that the idea was beginning to sound appealing. He needed this case to turn out well- and any remote chance that there could be a breakthrough in the Islington murder on offer sounded very attractive indeed. His clear up rate had been adequate, but not brilliant. At his last appraisal, the Detective Chief Inspector had made it plain. "You need a little magic, Lestrade. Being a safe pair of hands is all well and good when you start out, but it's time to show a little initiative." That had stung Greg; he worked hard, and resented being seen as pedestrian.

"Can you  _really_  deliver the proof to close down this network?" The DI sounded tired, but a little frustrated, too. Then he straightened up. "Actually, that laptop is evidence and I can just take it away from you now and get my people to unlock the data, get a warrant for this Pountney Club and obtain the stuff myself."

Sherlock glowered. "You don't get this, do you? Your 'people' aren't smart enough to put it together, connect up the dots, draw the right conclusions. They ask all the wrong questions and look in the wrong places for answers. If you agree that I can work with you on this case, then I'm willing to share with you my own work where I've drawn the links between the club and over thirty unreported crimes over the past four years. Oh, and a list of the three hundred and twenty three members of the club. In London alone, there is enough evidence to make over thirty arrests- and you can win brownie points with your colleagues in New York, Tokyo, Frankfurt and Singapore- where their nationals have been involved in crimes committed here in London."

Lestrade was startled by the scale of what the young man was revealing. "That sounds like Christmas come early. Really, it sounds too good to be true. While I might be interested in getting your opinion on this case, you know we couldn't pay you. And once the case was over, there can't be any guarantees of any other work. It's not a living, Sherlock."

Sherlock was tired, too- and sore. He waved his hand dismissively- "I don't care about payment; that doesn't matter. I care about the work." He looked down at the floor, sighed and ran his hands through his unruly hair a couple of times, in frustration. "What can I say or do to prove to you that this will be successful, Lestrade?"

The DI drank the dregs of his mug of coffee. "Well, if you can figure out how to get these four bastards from Clerkenwell to face the music, then that's a start."

Sherlock sat up, suddenly energised. "Oh, is that all? That's easy. Here's how you do it…." 


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was right. Lestrade had gone home, had a shower, changed his clothes, ate breakfast and kissed his wife, who complained that he still smelled of cigarette smoke. Then he returned to the station and called in the four financiers- with their lawyers in tow. The American, Italian and French suspects were all put into separate interview rooms. The Italian was questioned first. Rather than go over the same ground as last night, Lestrade took a different tack.

"Mister Vanucci, I have sworn testimony here from a person with whom you spent time last night, about your activities- which include ingesting illegal substances, and being an accessory to grievous bodily harm. I do not intend sending this to the Crown Prosecution Service. Instead, I will be taking the file to the Financial Services Authority, as it may suggest that you are not a fit person under the terms of the Financial Services and Markets Act for a position of such responsibility in your bank. I am sure that they will be taking up the issue with your bank's other board members, and possibly your home regulator. If, however, you were prepared to give us evidence about the Pountney Club, I am prepared to reconsider sending the file to the FSA."

The Italian chairman looked stunned. He turned to his lawyer briefly, and then asked Lestrade to agree to a short recess so he could confer with his advisor. Ten minutes later, he agreed to spill the beans. The other two did the same when Lestrade explained that the Italian had taken the easy way out.

The Hungarian was dealt with more harshly. He was told the file would be passed to the British banking authorities, and that he would most likely be asked to leave London, if not prosecuted. If he was sensible, he would take the next flight out and not ever return.

In exchange, rather than risk their careers, all four agreed to give statements regarding the Pountney Club. Their testimony was sufficient to get Lestrade the warrant he needed to raid the Club's office, and to confiscate PCs and data about their activities both legal and illegal on behalf of their members.

Thereafter, events moved swiftly. A joint task force was set up bringing Lestrade's homicide team together with members of the Met's SECC Intelligence Unit. On the first day the task force met, Lestrade was accompanied by a young man, a tall brunet with unruly hair and an uncanny sense of being able to ask the right question, or make a statement that was so off-the-wall that it made the entire team re-think their assumptions. And he came armed with a set of thirty unreported cases. After investigation by the team, twelve of the twenty victims agreed to press charges.

Thanks to his help, getting the papers ready only took three weeks. As they prepared to pass the files for almost seventy cases, including seventeen homicides, to the Crown Prosecution Service, Lestrade took Sherlock aside into his office to thank him for working with them. "Couldn't have done this without you. I'm going to be pretty busy for the next couple of months, though, tying up the loose ends and making sure the court cases are supported. So, I'm not going to be doing anything new for a while."

"Boring," was the only reply.

Lestrade then invited Sherlock to the case "wash up" with the task force, about to adjourn to the pub for the evening, but the young man declined, saying he had "other things to do." Lestrade watched him clear up his papers, put on his scarf and long coat, and then disappear without a backward glance.

After a few congratulatory rounds at the pub, Greg basked in the afterglow of a job well done. It had taken the Yard by surprise, the extent of the network, and the quality of the evidence they had presented. He realised that his career would never be the same when the DCI arrived with the Assistant Commissioner, who insisted on buying a round for the team.

"Well done, Lestrade; this is a real breakthrough, and I'm really proud of you."

Greg looked a little uncomfortable. "I've had a lot of help on this one, Sir. It's been a case of real team work, and it would never have even got started if it wasn't for our first break." He was about to explain how Sherlock had been the key, when the DCI interrupted. "Of course, Lestrade, it's always teamwork that wins the day, and it's modest of you to want to share the glory."

The Assistant Commissioner jumped in, too. "I'm sorry that I've got to run now- a reception with the Mayor of London- so duty calls, but I just wanted you to know that your work has done the Force proud." He shook hands with Lestrade and then was off.

A little worse for the drink, Lestrade decided to walk a while before getting the tube home, and his path took him up Montague Street. As he came up the road, about a fifty yards ahead he saw Sherlock and another youth talking on the pavement outside Number 46. Something was passed between the two men, and Sherlock disappeared through the front door. A few moments later, the young man passed Lestrade, who glanced at his face. His pupils were hugely dilated.  _High as a kite, and probably dealing cocaine, too._  When he rang the doorbell for Flat d, there was no reply. Lestrade sighed and carried on up the road.

In the weeks after, arrests followed, and the Crown Prosecution Service got to work. Lestrade texted Sherlock a few times, tried phoning only to get put through to voice mail. A week later, ringing the number simply got a recording, "The number you are calling is no longer in service." A day later when he tried stopping by the flat again, a young woman was leaving the building as he arrived. He asked if she had seen the bloke in Flat d.

"Which one? The tall guy with dark hair? Nah, he left a couple of weeks ago. There's an old guy in there now- snores so loud the couple in the room next door complained to the landlord last week." Neither she nor the landlord had a forwarding address or contact details.

Over the next seven months lawyers were briefed, court dates set, preliminary hearings held. In time, prosecutions were made, convictions secured. Across the world, a number of important bankers and senior financiers decided to take early retirement. And Greg found himself wondering whether Sherlock cared. He decided that the enigmatic young man would probably find it all rather boring. And he felt sad about that.


End file.
